


Unbound

by Fourier



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Cock Slapping, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Flogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:16:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fourier/pseuds/Fourier
Summary: The things they do… the things they do sometimes have very little to do with sex. Or, no, Percy corrects himself—they have plenty do with sex, but as a means to an end. Sex is the veneer, the window dressing, the icing and the decoration on top. 
Beneath it runs power. Runs exchanges.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this fic](https://predatories.tumblr.com/post/153940491623/so-i-went-to-write-some-fluff-for-buckysleftarm), and by sparxflame who requested the cock flogging that said scene did not explicitly give us. Here is that.

The things they do… the things they do sometimes have very little to do with sex. Or, no, Percy corrects himself—they have plenty do with sex, but as a means to an end. Sex is the veneer, the window dressing, the icing and the decoration on top. 

Beneath it runs _power._ Runs _exchanges._

It is the two of them, armor stripped off, defenses lowered, layers peeled back to expose nerves and sinew beneath. It is them handing themselves over, splayed out, saying _here I am,_ saying _I am yours,_ saying _I trust you with this, with me, with us._ It is a feeling neither of them have yet been allowed to feel, outside the walls of their bedrooms. 

For Vex this looks like her on her knees, or bent over Percival’s. It looks like a red-raw handprint on her ass, a hand fisted through her hair. It looks like her laughter as Percy tells her what to do and she refuses with a grin and he, with a firm hand and her nod of approval, _makes her._

For Percy….

For Percy this takes many forms. It looks like himself bound and pulling against the ropes, hard enough to bite into the flesh, while Vex watches and does not touch him. It looks like his gun, unloaded and emptied of powder, pressed into the soft underside of his jaw as she rides him. 

It looks, today, like himself standing with hands above his head, bound to the ceiling with rope, eyes dutifully shut as he hears the _thrum, thrum, thrum_ of Vex’ahlia striking something leathery and solid against her own palm. 

“You know the rules, Percival,” she says, and it is in that voice of hers, her _commanding_ tone, but soft, serious. “You are to stand there and take what I give to you unless you feel you must stop.”

“Yes, my lady,” he says, and he nearly opens his eyes just to see the look on her face, that full-body shudder that goes through her when he addresses her as such. But he keeps them shut, now, as she lays a hand on his cheek, thumbs his cheekbone.

“Good boy,” she murmurs. “And when are you to open your eyes?”

“If and only if you request it of me.”

“ _Good boy,_ ” she says again, deeper in her chest this time, and draws her hand away to leave him suspended on his own once more. 

He waits, patiently, as she walks around him. He can hear her as she circles him, slow and steady, footsteps almost silent. He is already painfully hard from anticipation alone—wants to rock his hips forward for anything, for a fraction of release, but he knows she will let him have it. When she is ready.

“Hold still for me, darling,” she says, and he straightens, flexes, waits for the impact—and _feels it,_ the harsh slap of cluster of leather straps against his inner thigh, just below his cock, and he jumps, hears her laugh as he rocks back and forth, stinging pleasure-pain radiating from his thighs.

“You fucking _love this,_ don’t you?” she muses. “You may answer.”

“Yes,” he gasps out. “Yes, my lady.”

“Good,” she says, and lays an identical whip to the other thigh, a mirror, another red spark of pain that he rocks into. 

She lays stripes up and down his inner thighs, teasing him, coming closer and closer to his cock as she does; a smack to his hips, his stomach, the soft flesh of his ass as she circles him. 

“I think I want you to beg for it,” she says finally, and she sounds almost _shy_ about that, despite everything else they’ve done, here and before, and he nearly laughs for it. “Can you do that, darling?”

“Please,” he says, fists in the ropes, pulling, _pulling._ “Please, Vex, _please—“_

_Thwap._

The shock of it, the pain of the leather against the sensitive skin of his cock, shoots through him, makes his back arch and his teeth grit, but it also brings blood rushing to the surface, a jolt of _feeling_ , of _sensation_ that is not _pleasure_ but is not entirely un-pleasure and he wants _more, more, more—_

_“More—”_

_Thwap._

He groans as she continues, _thwap, thwap, thwap_ against him; she traverses back to his thighs to give a respite between the impacts, and it lets the pain spread evenly over his erection, like an insistent thrum just under the skin, and then the leather is back and he nearly screams with it and she laughs, a hand on his shoulder, a force holding him down. 

The impacts grow, cresting, pauses between them shortening until she is laying them quick and easy against him, one after the other, and just when he thinks he might need to tell her to stop; when he thinks it might be too much; when he nearly opens his eyes—

He hears the flog fall to the ground, feels her body against his as she stretches on tip-toes to undo the ropes around his wrists, and pushes him back against the bed so that he falls back and she kneels on either side of him to sink down on top of him.

He does not last more than a few rolls of her hips, oversensitive and raw, the soft feeling of being inside her even more overwhelming compared to the pain that is only just subsiding. He comes hard and with a weak moan, hips stuttering, and she does not pull away the way she usually does but rides him through it, hands seeking his, lacing fingers together as he breathes heavily and shakes. 

He feels split-open; he feels empty; he feels _whole._

He feels her fall against his chest, soft breasts against his bare chest, himself still inside her. 

“Percival,” she laughs, reaching up, fingertips running through the short, rough hairs of his beard. “You can open your eyes now.

**Author's Note:**

> Use protection, kids.


End file.
